


A Night Without Consequences

by shadow_lover



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: AU where Victor and Yuuri are just friends, Biting, Drunk Sex, Hair-pulling, Insults, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Barcelona Banquet, Resolved Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: “I have the gold,” Yuri agrees, and it’s a filthy sort of possessiveness. A reverence. His eyes gleam with it. “I want something else, too.”The world lurches, and Victor is untethered. His loudest thought is, he should be surprised.He isn’t.





	A Night Without Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/gifts).



> Hi, Icicle! You asked for so many delightful things, and I hope this ends up suiting your taste :)

Nobody notices when Victor drinks too much in Barcelona. They’re used to him as a friendly, laughing drunk; they’re used to him celebrating. But tonight, Victor is quiet. He doesn’t know what he’s drinking towards. Relief, maybe. Resolve.

One last night to let loose, before he returns for his crown.

He hasn’t announced anything, of course. He’s still working it out in his head. Besides—this isn’t his moment. He gets one more night in the shadows, while the spotlight lingers on his competition in waiting.

On Yuuri, who’s as quiet as Victor is tonight, though rather more sober—it’s been a long week. He must be exhausted.

On Yuri, who is a firework crackling through the room. He’s smug and gleeful and infectious, smiling, laughing, drawing every eye in the room.

Victor—drunk, restless—can’t look away either. 

For a sodden moment, he feels a pang that he wasn’t there for Yuri’s debut. But maybe it’s better this way. Let him win a moment to shine on his own, before Victor steps back onstage.

Victor has always chased gold. Tonight, gold is slim limbs, a narrow chin lifted, and wisps of hair falling from its tail. The next time he takes the ice, Victor will be there, to cut him down.

The afterparty is in Christophe’s room, as always. Everyone who matters is invited, and even some who don’t matter. Some beg off—it’s late—but too many people still crowd into the double room. Victor lingers in the hallway with Yuuri while two pairs of pairs skaters block the doorway.

Yuuri says quietly, “I’m going to head out now.”

Victor doesn’t ask if he’s sure. They’re still rough, still uncertain what it’ll mean to compete and collaborate. He says, “See you tomorrow,” because after they fought, he booked a separate hotel room for the rest of the weekend. It was worth the extra expense for the space and quiet, to hear himself think.

He misses the moment that Yuuri leaves. Next thing he knows, the doorway is clear. He walks through into a wall of noise. The crowd bumps elbows, and nobody notices his stumbling.

He lands against the dresser, where he can smirk mysteriously and observe. Christophe lands next to him long enough to hand him a plastic cup, full to the brim and sloshing over their hands. Then Christophe dives back into the crowd, twisting his shirt off as he goes.

Victor sips what he’s been given. It’s the orange soda Christophe always buys in Spain. He can’t taste the alcohol, but his tongue buzzes with it, and he’s warm. He loosens his tie, and resists the urge to take it off—this isn’t his night to fall apart.

There is a lightning strike at the door: Yuri storms in, flanked by Mila and Otabek, and Georgi too close behind Mila. Even surrounded by people, Yuri stands alone. He surveys the room, eyes narrowed. His tie’s still tight around his narrow throat.

Then Yuri’s gaze meets his, and his smile curves wickedly. He’s caught Victor looking at him. Victor doesn’t look away. The room darkens, blurs, except for the clear gilded brightness, smirking at the door.

When Yuri moves, the spell breaks, and Victor’s left poised against the dresser. His suit—his skin—is too hot and tight, something heavy pulses through him, a rhythm deeper and stronger than the music.

He’s had far too much to drink.

He takes another sip.

Two Chinese skaters stop in front of him for a giddy hello. He thinks the woman won silver. Then a young man he doesn’t recognize stumbles up—Victor isn’t sure what discipline—maybe still juniors, even—shoved by his friends. The kid mumbles in accented English, “Can I take a selfie with you?”

Victor hides the drink behind the boy’s back, bends down next to him, and gives a dazzling smile. The kid says thank you too many times. Victor just dazzles again, and drinks. The crowd shifts, and his stomach lurches with it.

There’s a thud on the dresser next to him, jostling his elbow, and he looks down to where Yuri has thrown himself. His scowl is so picturesque, so sharply etched, Victor can’t even feel the anger’s bite.

He wants to keep Yuri angry, if he’ll keep glaring like this. “Do you want a selfie too?”

Yes—Yuri’s scowl deepens. But he doesn’t answer the question. “Before the free skate, you told me not to forget what I wanted.”

His voice is low and intimate, so Victor has to lean close to hear. The cup’s thin plastic is sticky under his fingers. His collar’s too tight, and Yuri’s shoulder too sharp where it presses into his arm.

“You have the gold,” Victor says. 

“I have the gold,” Yuri agrees, and it’s a filthy sort of possessiveness. A reverence. His eyes gleam with it. “I want something else, too.”

The world lurches, and Victor is untethered. His loudest thought is, he should be surprised.

He isn’t.

Victor knows he is a prodigy, a genius. Once more, the prize is his for the taking. He asks, because he wants to hear the score announced: “And what is that?”

Yuri leans in closer, shoulder a blade in Victor’s arm, voice a blade in Victor’s ear: “I want you,” he murmurs, gaze flicking to the cup in Victor’s hand, “to blow me.”

Hazily, Victor wonders how he would answer this if he were sober. Perhaps it is a relief he’ll never know. Tonight, he drinks, lifts his free hand, and brushes a wisp of hair from Yuri’s temple. Strokes over the pulled-back gold, and Yuri freezes. He’s tense, like he’s poised before a jump.

Victor touches the hairband, twists, and pulls it out.

Yuri jolts, but doesn’t pull away. His hair falls to his shoulders, forward over his eyes. He glances around as if checking whether anyone’s seen.

Victor just smiles, like normal. To anyone else, this looks like normal: Victor teasing, Yuri scowling. They’ve done this for years.

He isn’t sure when the teasing changed—nor does he care, right now. He bends low enough his breath stirs Yuri’s bangs, and purrs, “It’s past your bedtime, Yura. Want me to tuck you in?”

Yuri elbows him. “How much have you _had_?”

“Enough, probably.” The cup is halfway empty, and Victor takes one more sip. It’s cold going down him, which feels odd when his skin is so warm, buzzing, alive. He feels loose, but Yuri still looks so stiff. “Do you want the rest?”

Yuri takes it, sniffs, and makes a face. “Gross. That’s Christophe’s awful fruit piss, isn’t it.”

But he drinks anyway.

Victor grins. “Say good-bye to your devoted fans, and meet me in room 423.”

Yuri drinks again. His throat moves as he swallows. “Is Katsudon there?”

“He isn’t.” Victor considers explaining, but he can’t get the words in the right order, and besides. It doesn’t matter why. This isn’t about the three of them, about coaching, about what Victor’s doing next. This is just the night before tomorrow, and it’s about taking what they want.

“All right,” Yuri says. He looks relieved. Victor wonders what Yuri would have done if Victor _hadn’t_ had a room to himself tonight. If he’d be pulled into a storage closet, or bathroom, or out by the pool deck—if Yuri was counting on his roommate being out late.

This is better, because Victor is reckless, not stupid. He wants a night without consequences.

So. He ruffles Yuri’s hair, sways away from a kick, and does not stumble to the door. As he makes good-bye excuses, to Georgi and Christophe and Naoko and Francesca, he holds back the urge to tell them how soft Yuri’s hair is, like spun gold clouds, and how he can still feel it sliding through his fingertips. He laughs and declines Christophe’s offer of another cup. 

He glances over his shoulder when he reaches the door, and through the crowd sees Yuri, red-faced, head thrown back, downing the awful fruit piss. 

The door closes behind him, and the hallway is a long well of quiet. He feels muffled, walking down to the elevator. Inside, he slumps against the metal wall. It’s cold on the back of his head. It feels good.

The elevator is empty, as is the fourth-floor hallway once he reaches it. It’s not even midnight, and it’s like he’s the only person there. His room, at least, shows signs of life. Two nights is enough to strew most of his belongings over it.

He kicks his shoes off, then leans over the bathroom counter. The mirror shows his eyes are red, and there’s sweat at his temples. The alcohol’s loosened him, relaxed his face—he looks younger than he is. He runs the sink, splashes water on his face, and has time to practice his most obnoxious smirk before there’s a quick, sharp knock on the door. 

Yuri’s outside, jaw tense, coiled to spring. He blazes past him, into the room, and then Victor’s collar’s tight around his throat because Yuri’s yanking on his tie, shoving him back. The door slams shut as Victor falls against it, pinned by Yuri’s slim form, and Yuri yanks harder, dragging him down for a—

No. Victor grabs Yuri by the hair, twists hard enough to draw out a pained gasp. They freeze, panting, bare centimeters away. Yuri’s breath is hot on his lips, and Victor smells the rum and orange soda.

“Don’t fucking play with me,” Yuri hisses.

“I’m not kissing you like that.” If Yuri wants him, he’ll get _him_. His way. “I’m kissing you like this.” He holds Yuri still, hand tightening in that soft, soft hair, and leans in.

Yuri tastes just like he expected: rum and orange and victory. He kisses how he expected, too. Wet, messy, the desperation outweighing any skill. Yuri opens to him, moves, presses closer along his body. Victor grunts as teeth sink into his lower lip. He tightens his grip on Yuri’s hair in warning, but Yuri just bites harder before letting go.

Like expected. What Victor didn’t expect was how much he enjoys it. Warmth coils in him, and a fluttering anticipation, like he’s at the rink side, braced on the railing, and a slight, scowling figure has launched above the ice.

And Victor’s waiting to see how he’ll land.

He pulls back, just barely, and Yuri makes this little whine that Victor pretends not to hear. His face is pink, lips red, and he’s breathing hard. He looks as dizzy as Victor feels.

Victor finally lets go of Yuri’s hair, lets the strands slide through his fingers, curves his hand down Yuri’s flushed neck. His thumb rests lightly over his windpipe. “Is that what you wanted?”

Yuri swallows hard, and shoves away. His chin lifts stubbornly. “It’s a start.”

Victor pushes off the door. “Then tell me what you want next.”

He reaches, but before he can touch that sharp jaw again, Yuri backs away. He perches on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his braced arms, and looks up, so his hair falls from his face.

“Strip for me.”

So Victor strips. This is nothing new, and he’s never been shy, but in the dim hotel room, he’s hyperaware of Yuri’s attention. Yuri doesn’t meet his eyes, which means Victor in turn is free to stare at _him_. To see the hunger burning as Victor slides his tie from around his neck. The way Yuri’s hands tighten in the sheets when he shrugs his jacket off. The way Yuri’s breath catches when he begins working loose the buttons at his cuffs, at his neck.

Cursing, Yuri launches forward. “You’re too fucking _slow_ ,” he snarls, tearing at the rest of the buttons.

His hands are sloppy, he half-falls against Victor, and the two of them working together takes twice as long. Victor doesn’t mind the delay, not when it comes with Yuri’s hot, wet mouth pressed against his collarbone, his chest. They’re a tangled mess of limbs and teeth, and suddenly everything is _urgent_. Victor twists his shirt off, and it hasn’t hit the floor before he’s grabbing Yuri next. He kisses his neck, breathing _in_ , shoves Yuri’s jacket off.

Yuri growls, “Don’t fucking play with me,” which he doesn’t even understand. He isn’t playing. He doesn’t know what he _is_ doing. But this isn’t a game.

“How do you want me?” Victor asks.

Yuri snarls something unintelligible, and drags him back. They topple onto the bed, Yuri splayed out and Victor poised over him. His thigh presses up behind one of Yuri’s, and the contact is so hot, so firm, his whole consciousness focuses there. They aren’t all the way undressed, even. Victor’s still in his socks and boxers. Yuri’s in boxers, and his shirt’s only half-unbuttoned, fallen back to bare his shoulders. 

Victor braces on one elbow, runs his other hand up Yuri’s exposed side. Feels the shudder in his ribs. Kisses his neck, slowly, softly, tastes him, and Yuri swears.

“Have you done this before?” Victor murmurs into his neck.

Yuri’s fingers tighten like claws in Victor’s shoulders. “You worthless old man, blow me already.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the ache in his own cock, or maybe it’s Yuri arching up, clawing at him, wanting him—but Victor can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

And after all, he said he would. If he wants to come out of retirement, he really ought to take the competition seriously.

He presses a last kiss to Yuri’s throat, then catches his lips—less a kiss, more two mouths pressed artlessly together—as he unbuttons the rest of Yuri’s shirt. Pushes it half-off his shoulders, and breaks away. He licks his lips, and savors the way Yuri flushes even redder.

“Move back against the pillows,” Victor says, because fuck if he’s kneeling on the floor for this. Drunk as he is, he wouldn’t feel the ache until morning, but even foggy with booze and arousal, he knows better.

Yuri’s bright red, and he moves back like Victor says, in jerky, scrambling movements. His knee catches Victor in the chest. Victor grabs him by the calf, fingers digging into sleek muscle, and looks up Yuri’s body. Smooth skin and bruises, a fragile frame made strong through fire, and maybe Victor will burn him again.

Or Yuri will burn him. He thinks, through the haze, he might like that. 

Still in boxers and his undone shirt, Yuri looks more disheveled and vulnerable than if he were naked. Probably. Maybe. Victor would like to test that. But not now; now he has a a demand to meet, as Yuri lifts his chin and says, “Get the fuck on with it.”

Victor kisses the inside of Yuri’s knee. He likes the twitch under his lips, and thinks it would be worth getting kicked in the head if he got to see Yuri bite his lip like _that_. But Yuri doesn’t even kick, just holds tense and still as Victor kisses again.

Victor leans his cheek against Yuri’s knee and touches inside his other thigh. Trails fingertips through soft, barely-there hair, over soft skin, upwards, and now Yuri isn’t meeting his eyes. Yuri’s looking down, as Victor’s fingers meet the hem of his boxers, and dip upwards. Yuri’s hips jerk up. He’s hard. Really hard. The line of his cock presses clearly against the thin fabric.

Victor wants to tease. To say something. Anything. But he can’t summon words. He leans forward, and touches Yuri’s cock through the fabric. He spreads his palm, cupping him, and feels the heat crackling up his arm. Victor squeezes, gently, feels Yuri twitch and hears him groan, and it’s—

Victor’s hard too. He’s too tight and hot all over, heat tingling all down his belly. He traces his fingers down Yuri’s shaft, slides the fabric against it, and he hardly even hears Yuri groaning over the pounding of his heartbeat.

He unwraps Yuri like a gift. Fast, sloppy. He doesn’t care about tearing the paper. Yuri shifts, folds and unfolds, and then his boxers are down around one ankle, and Victor’s holding his thighs apart. Yuri sits a bit straighter, his thin arms taut, and says, “Any day now,” and it almost sounds like he doesn’t care. 

Victor bites his inner thigh, hard, and Yuri whines, “ _Victor._ Someone will see.”

He bites again, harder. Yuri’s whole body jerks up into his teeth. Victor likes the give of Yuri’s muscle, the taste of his skin when he licks. The way he shivers when Victor lets go and kisses between the teeth marks. Yuri’s cock jumps, bright and pink against his pale belly. His balls are tight.

“You taste good, kitten.”

“Don’t be romantic,” Yuri snaps, and then he gasps, contorts, when Victor grabs his cock.

 _This isn’t romance,_ Victor doesn’t say, because as his palm warms around Yuri’s cock, as the smooth, hard length fills his grasp—it’s slick under his thumb—he isn’t sure it would be true.

Yuri’s telling him to hurry again, but that’s not why Victor bends down. It’s because his mouth waters, and he’s hard, and he wants to taste him. He holds the base of Yuri’s cock, braces the other hand under Yuri’s thigh, and licks his head. Barely registers the salt-musk taste before he’s chasing more of it. He mouths down the length as Yuri swears, jerking under him in sharp, halting movements, like he’s trying to hold himself still.

Victor pauses, with Yuri’s cock resting warm and wet on his cheek. The taste and smell of him cuts through the too-sweet liquor aftertaste. When he looks up, Yuri’s holding one hand over his mouth, and his eyes are saucer-wide. His other hand’s white-knuckled in the sheets, and Victor nearly purrs in satisfaction.

Yuri took down his world record this week. It’s only fair that Victor take him down too. 

Victor shifts his weight, braces one hand on the bed so his weight’s not all on his knees, and dives in. Yuri’s cock is warm and heavy on his tongue, and it tastes so fucking good. He can’t see well from this angle, but he doesn’t need to. He needs to spread his jaw, breathe slowly, breathe in Yuri’s scent, and swallow him down.

Yuri makes a rough noise, almost pained. Victor shifts angles and takes in the rest. His nose presses to Yuri’s belly, and Yuri jerks up into him—but he can’t go any deeper. He’s taken it all. Victor’s own cock strains in his boxers. His hand digs into Yuri’s thigh, and he swallows again—holds in place, and his blood sings with the whine edging Yuri’s every breath. 

Yuri jerks again. It hurts his throat, like the last half of the free skate, when the air’s stabbing through his lungs. Victor pulls back, a little, enough to push his tongue against Yuri’s cock, enough to push again—just to hear that whimper again— 

He sucks hard, and Yuri freezes, then shudders. Victor barely has the presence of mind to look up so he can see Yuri arch, mouth wide and silent and shocked, as he comes on Victor’s tongue.

Victor’s already so full up with Yuri, he barely tastes the splash of salt.

Yuri slumps back against the headboard, and Victor sits up between his spread thighs. His throat hurts. He rolls his tongue through Yuri’s come. Tastes it against his teeth. He swallows, and he knows there’s some left on his lip by the way Yuri is staring at his mouth.

Yuri’s red-faced and messed up and panting as hard as he did after the free skate. For a second, Victor isn’t sure whether he will cry. He isn’t sure whether he’d like that or not. He thinks he’d like anything Yuri did right now.

The bite mark is purpling on Yuri’s thigh. Victor wonders if that was Yuri’s first blowjob. He wonders if that should matter. 

He licks the come from his lip, leans up, and breathes into Yuri’s ear. “Are you going to return the favor?”

Yuri’s breath hitches. Then he drags Victor down and kisses him, soft, sweet, wet and open, licks himself from Victor’s lips. He breaks away, and seizes Victor tight by the hair. His voice is low and his face is vicious when he says, “Are you coming back?”

And Victor is too drunk to pretend he doesn’t know what Yuri means.

“Yes.”

Yuri’s expression doesn’t change. “Nationals?”

“Yes. If it works out.”

“Then no,” Yuri says. His fingers tighten in Victor’s hair, and it’s painful and vicious and _fond_ , and Victor’s heart flips funny in his chest. Yuri growls, “That was not a fucking favor, you balding fuck. That was my prize for wiping the floor with your charity pig. Will you stop _smiling_.”

Victor will not stop smiling. 

Yuri half-tugs, half-pushes Victor up with him, until Victor’s sitting back and Yuri is climbing into his lap to better confront him. Spread over Victor’s thighs, on his knees on the mattress, he can look down at Victor, and Victor can look up at him, at the way the light catches gold in his hair. At that beautiful sharp scowl, flushed with victory and fixed on him.

Victor thinks, stunned, _I need to fuck him sober, too._

He runs his hands up Yuri’s sides, then down. He digs his thumbs into the hollows of his hips. “Then when I win gold, I’ll claim my prize, too.”

“ _If_ you win,” Yuri corrects, “then yeah. I’ll suck your dick.”

Victor laughs. Takes Yuri by the jaw, touches his mouth. Dips his thumb between soft pink lips.

“ _When_ I win,” he says.

He kisses the protest from Yuri’s lips.


End file.
